


Operation Lapis

by ComplicatedLight



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Community: lewis_challenge, Lewis Secret Santa 2014, M/M, snogfest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 10:02:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3115967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComplicatedLight/pseuds/ComplicatedLight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a fine June day, James and Robbie go undercover—with unexpected results . . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Friday Morning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LyricaB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyricaB/gifts).



> Written for LyricaXXX as part of the Lewis-Challenge Secret Santa 2014.
> 
> With grateful thanks to Divingforstones and Lindenharp, for all manner of support and beta-ing.

“Come on. We’ve been summoned.” Robbie nods in the direction of Jean Innocent’s office as he slings his jacket on. “She didn’t say what it was about.” He’s frowning, but James has become somewhat of an expert in the interpretation of the many forms of the Lewis frown. This one is mild—more questioning than anything else. Lewis obviously can’t think why the Chief Super wants a word.

James follows him out of the office and down the corridor. Like Lewis, he can’t think of any particular reason why they might be about to get a bollocking (which is the most common reason for finding themselves in Jean Innocent’s office). In fact they’ve been rather well behaved over the last few weeks: Lewis hasn’t felt the need to ignore procedure to get a result; and James hasn’t felt the need to unleash his cutting wit and chilly intellect on anyone who’s been giving Lewis a difficult time. All in all it’s been a bit dull recently, and James for one wouldn’t mind a bit of excitement. He doesn’t want a murder—he really doesn’t—he still comes out the other side of each murder investigation tormented by thoughts of the victim’s suffering, the suffering of the loved ones who are left behind—tormented by thoughts of his own inadequacies. But something to do other than sit reviewing cold cases would be welcome. They complain when they’re on a case and they don’t get to eat or sleep properly, but the fact is that both of them start getting rather restless after a week of normal work hours and proper food. So, almost three weeks without a significant case to grapple with, and they’re sick of the sight of the office; sick of the sight of each other sighing over dusty case files. Well, that’s not strictly true. He might be sick of the office and the files—but sick of gazing at Lewis? Never.

They knock and go straight in, and find that Innocent isn’t alone. A man—early to mid forties, gym frequenter, going on the muscle bulk under his suit, good-looking in a bland, generic way—is sitting across the desk from her. They break off their conversation as Lewis and James walk in, and the man—obviously a copper—turns his attention to them and examines them, making no attempt to disguise that that’s what he’s doing. His eyes skim over Lewis but then settle on James, lingering on him for so long and in such a sleazily appreciative way, that James feels horribly self-conscious and uncomfortable. He conjures up the most disdainful scowl he can muster, and the bloke finally looks away, but not without a knowing little smile briefly playing round his mouth. _Creep._ The smile’s there and gone in a flash and James is pretty certain that Innocent didn’t catch it, even though she’s directly facing them. But perhaps Lewis did, because he’s noisily dragged a third chair up to their side of the desk, and has rather pointedly inserted himself between James and the gym bunny. And he definitely wouldn’t describe the Lewis frown as mild anymore. 

“Robbie, Hathaway, this is DI Alexander Cameron, from Berkshire Police. He’s come to ask for our help with a case.”

Cameron is smiling at Lewis now, though James would say he’s seen more convincing warmth from any number of psychopaths.

“Gentlemen. Please, call me Sandy.” He pauses, perhaps expecting Lewis—to what? Shake his hand? Tell him to call him Robbie? Neither is forthcoming, and Innocent all but tuts at Lewis in the awkward little silence that follows, before she sighs and moves them on.

“Perhaps, Sandy, you’d better explain the situation.”

“Right. You might have seen in the papers that we’ve had two stabbings in the last three weeks in Reading city centre. None fatal to date, thank God, but that’s more down to luck and the quick actions of passers-by than anything else. Both incidents have several features in common: they both occurred on Friday nights in a public park in the city, and they both targeted male same-sex couples, engaging in, er,”—he makes quote marks in the air with his fingers—“'amorous activity.’ Obviously, it looks like the work of one perpetrator.”

 _Shit._ James can see exactly where this is going. Cameron was eyeing him up as a potential partner for some perp-bating amorous activity. _Shit. No wonder the creepy fucker leered at him._ Lewis is obviously onto him too—he’s got his arms folded, legs wide apart; suddenly every inch the alpha male of the nick. And he’s glowering at Cameron. Of course Lewis would know just how much James would _hate_ the idea of having to even touch someone like Cameron. Just the idea of it is making his skin crawl.

Innocent’s looking puzzled. “There was something else though, wasn’t there? The age difference?”

Cameron shrugs. “Well, I don’t want to overstate that. It might not be the most important feature of the case. I think a believable match between the partners is the main thing. They’ve got to actually look like they’d be together. Like the younger one would go for the older one.” He glances across at James as he says this and the shark-smile is back. James can practically feel Lewis bristle.

Innocent is drumming her nails on her desk. “DI Cameron, I thought you said that on both occasions there was an obvious age difference of at least twenty years between the men targeted, and on both occasions the attacker was heard to shout _You fucking pervert—he’s young enough to be your son_ , while he was stabbing the older man?” She looks at him like he’s an idiot. “In what way might the age difference not be central to the case?”

James could kiss Jean Innocent right now, and that’s not a thought he’s had before. He’d rather kiss her than Randy Sandy, any day; and coming from a man who’s finally accepted that to all intents and purposes he’s gay, that’s saying something. James glances at Lewis, who’s sitting very upright in his chair, staring at Cameron, and sporting a “this should be good” look.

Cameron’s looking decidedly shifty. “Yes, I suppose . . . the thing is—no offence Lewis—but when I spoke to Chief Superintendent Innocent earlier, she seemed to think you two would be a good possibility for a couple, but having met you—I just don’t see it. James—he’s a thoroughbred, and you, you’re . . . well . . .” He doesn’t actually say _headed for the knacker’s yard_ , but the implication is clear. “Anyway, you’re obviously straight, so I’m sure you’d rather be spared the embarrassment of having to snog another bloke, especially your sergeant.” 

James isn’t sure what he thinks Lewis will say in response, but it certainly isn’t what his governor actually spits at Cameron.

“What makes you think I’m straight?” 

Cameron looks incredulous. “You?! Your suit? Your haircut? Want a list?”

Lewis looks at him like he’s just found the source of the bad smell in the room. 

“My sexuality isn’t any of your business, and it isn’t relevant to the case. The only thing that matters is putting together the best chance of catching the bastard who’s been stabbing innocent members of the public. And, as I understand it, you need a couple of male senior officers with an obvious age difference. Blokes who know each other well; who are comfortable with each other. I’d say we’re pretty ideal—but it’s not just up to me.” He turns his back on Cameron. “What d’ya think, James? You know anything like this is purely voluntary, don’t you? You shouldn’t feel any pressure to say yes. Right Ma’am?” Lewis looks away from James, towards Innocent, but just in that turn, in that slide of his gaze away, James catches something. A vulnerability; a ghost of some unidentifiable emotion; a momentary glimpse of something important that James’ brain can’t put into words; but it makes his heart contract. He turns to Innocent too. 

“I agree with Inspector Lewis, Ma’am. I think we’re ideal.”

“Well, Cameron?” She’s clearly had quite enough. “Do you want my officers or don’t you? Your options are both or neither: it’s up to you. I’ve got plenty of work for them if you think you can do better elsewhere.” Her tone of voice suggests that him finding anyone better is very unlikely. Cameron glares at her but it’s obvious he’s lost the battle. “Yes, all right. I’ll have them.”

The instant it’s settled, James realises he’s said yes without really knowing anything about what the “amorous activities” might entail. Well, they both have. _Jesus._ He can feel the heat flooding into his face. Will he have to pretend to pick Lewis up in the park? Will he have to pretend to _touch_ Lewis? To drop to his knees in front of him and . . . _Oh God._ But maybe it’ll be the other way round? Maybe Lewis will have to play an older man worshipping the younger one with his mouth? Maybe Lewis will have to unzip him and . . .”

“Hathaway!” It’s Innocent. “For heaven’s sake, James! We haven't got all day!”

 _Get a fucking grip._ “Sorry, Ma’am.” They’re all three of them staring at him. Well, it’s not like he’s a stranger to arousal being served up with a side order of utter mortification. 

Cameron—all traces of _call me Sandy_ , gone now—talks them through the details. The park where both attacks happened isn’t known particularly as a gay pick-up place, and no, they won’t need to simulate sex acts. There’ll need to be some pretty passionate kissing, but nothing much beyond that; and they’ll be playing partners, not strangers. On the inside, James lurches back and forth between giddiness-inducing relief and the heavy drag of disappointment. On the outside, he’s all blank face and incisive questions: business as usual, then.

If Lewis is having any reaction to the news about what they’ll have to do, he doesn’t show it. He’s in full-on competent DI mode: quizzing Cameron about the risks, the back-up; getting every last detail worked out to his satisfaction. It may be Cameron’s case, but it’s obvious to everyone in the room that Lewis is by far the more experienced, capable DI. They’re going over exactly how things need to play out in the park, when Cameron shakes his head.

“The thing is, Lewis, in both incidents the older man was in charge of the . . . situation. I mean, from all accounts, both times, the older bloke was doing a lot of the _manhandling_. In the first incident, the older guy—Tony—had his partner pinned against a tree and was snogging his face off pretty aggressively. All consensual, of course, but a definite dom vibe about the proceedings. You’d better be up to the job.” He sweeps his gaze over James as he says this, making it obvious who _he_ thinks should get to pin James against a tree. The man is so vile it’s making James’ stomach hurt. Cameron drags his attention back to Lewis. “I don’t want my operation ballsed-up because you’re more used to spending your Friday nights in your slippers, drinking cocoa, than getting your leg over.”

Lewis practically growls. “You just make sure your team know what the hell they’re doing. Let me and Hathaway worry about the other stuff.”

Cameron holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. If you say so.”

So the meeting winds to an irritable close. They’ll see Cameron and his team at Reading nick later in the afternoon. In the meantime they both need a bit of time to go home and get changed— _and_ to try and work out how they’ll ever manage to make eye contact with each other again, because since the whole manhandling and tree-pinning part of the conversation, they haven’t managed so much as a peep at each other.


	2. Friday Afternoon

James is waiting outside his flat as Lewis pulls up. Cameron has told them to dress smart-casual, and James has been wondering what Lewis will show up wearing. He’s seen him in suit and tie of course, and in jeans and a rugby shirt at weekends, but it’s not often he sees his boss in anything between the two. He knows it isn’t normal to be wasting so much fucking time thinking about his governor’s clothes. Mind you, some of the other things he’s lost whole weekends thinking about . . . God. He’s a bloody mess, and he knows it. 

He gets into the passenger seat and glances across at Lewis as he fastens his seatbelt. Dark grey trousers—pretty nondescript; maybe even suit trousers. Dull. But the shirt—the shirt is a deeper, more intense blue, and softer-looking, than Lewis’ usual work shirts. James hasn’t seen it before. The blue—not cornflower, not cerulean. His mind casts around. Periwinkle? No. Lapis? Yes, lapis. Lapis lazuli. He rolls the words round, feeling the shape of them in the press of his tongue against the roof of his mouth, in the parting of his lips as he whispers them to himself. The blue of antiquity; of pharaohs. Of Vermeer’s ultramarine. _Yes_. Lewis’ shirt is the colour of that scrap of fabric wrapped round the head of the Girl with The Pearl Earring. He wants to check if the blue matches Lewis’ eyes; if the fabric feels warm, like dozing on a summer’s afternoon; if it feels soft, like mist. He gets his phone out and checks his emails instead. 

Twenty minutes later they’re well out of Oxford, and they’ve hardly said a word to each other. James runs a few comments through his head, trying to find something to say that’ll cut through the itchy, uncomfortable silence. He can feel hysteria building in him, high in his chest, threatening to burst out. Useless quotes crowd him, jostle him as the pressure builds to say something. Lewis shifts in his seat. James coughs. Lewis sighs. Fuck it . . . 

“Well, at least there’ll be no actual rumpy-pumpy, sir.”

That does it. Lewis has a coughing fit, and for a moment James thinks he’s going to have to hold the steering wheel while his boss catches his breath. But no; Lewis breathes out forcibly a couple of times, and apparently he’s back in control of himself. They glance at each other, and Lewis treats him to a hint of a wry smile.

“Yes, well. Just be grateful for small mercies, James. It could have been a lot worse.”

“Don’t I know it. It could have been Randy Sandy.” Lewis doesn’t take his eyes off the road, but he looks distinctly amused.

“I take it you didn't warm to Detective Inspector Cameron, then?”

James snorts. “With all due respect to his superior rank, sir, I thought he was a . . . _greasy tallow-catch_.”

Lewis chuckles. “Shakespeare?”

“Who else?”

“Well, I can’t argue with the Bard, can I?”

And just like that, they’re themselves again. And, actually, being in the car and watching the road rather than each other, makes it easier to talk, somehow.

“Are you sure you’re okay with all this, James? I know it’s as awkward as hell. You can still change your mind, you know.”

“I’m much more bothered about you getting stabbed than I am about the other stuff.” Which is true, of course, as far as it goes. He _hates_ that it’s Lewis who’ll be targeted if they do manage to attract the stabber’s attention. Back in Innocent’s office he’d argued that Lewis should wear a stab vest, knowing, even as he was saying it, that it wouldn’t work. It’s a fine June day and they’ll be in shirtsleeves this evening—no way of hiding the bulky Kevlar. But implying that he’s barely given the _other stuff_ a thought . . . well. Given what’s been playing through his mind over the last hour or two, he’s just grateful that Lewis—despite his many abilities—can’t actually read minds.

“Okay. Well.” Lewis pauses while he overtakes a lorry. “Look. I’m a bit uncomfortable about having to be . . . domineering with you.” 

_Jesus_. Miraculously, James manages to produce a smirk. “I’m sure you’ll manage, sir.” It’s a bit of a cheeky comment to his superior officer, even for James.

Lewis shoots him a frustrated look. “That’s not what I . . . I’m worried that . . . I don’t want to do anything that . . .”

His care, his discomfort—is delicious. James can’t help the grin that forms on his face, and Lewis catches it and looks back at the road, grumbling. 

“I don’t know why I bother.”

“I’m so glad that you do though, sir.” And there they are: the truth masquerading as facetiousness. James, hidden in plain sight.

Lewis is frowning, though. It clearly is bothering him.

“What about you though, sir? Are you okay? Cameron was right about one thing—you are straight.” The fact that he doesn’t include himself in this statement is the closest James has got to an admission to Lewis. The unspoken words hang between them.

“James.” Lewis sighs. “A kiss is a kiss—I can’t see that the gender of the person makes that much difference—it’s the person that matters, isn’t it? I’ve done plenty of kissing in my time, I assure you. It won’t be a problem.” And with that little bombshell dropped, they fall back into silence; Lewis presumably to concentrate on the instructions the sat nav is giving him, guiding them through the outskirts of Reading; James, to try and keep his mind away from the outrageous knowledge that in a couple of hours’ time, Lewis will be vigorously kissing him—apparently without any concerns about James’ gender; and apparently _with_ a great deal of expertise, developed through years of practice. _God help him._


	3. Friday Evening

They’ve done their briefing with Cameron’s team, who—going on the looks being passed back and forth—think Cameron is as big a wanker as James does. By 6.45pm he and Lewis are parked a little way from the police station, ready to start walking to Prospect Park, once they get the word that the team—in plain clothes and trying their best not to look like coppers—are all in place. Lewis has an earpiece in, and James is grateful that it’s not him who has to deal with Randy Sandy whispering in his ear. 

They set off on foot just before seven. James’ heart is making its presence felt; he’s breathless; light-headed. As they round the corner a few yards from the park entrance, Lewis, without saying a word, takes hold of his hand—which makes the breathlessness somehow better—and worse. They walk into the park—lovers out for an evening stroll—and James forces himself to focus on the plan.

The park is a large square of grass, dotted with trees, and crisscrossed by paths. There’s a fountain in the middle, with some benches round it. They need to position themselves fairly centrally—visible to someone on the lookout for possible victims. After some debate in the team planning meeting, it had been decided that they wouldn’t lean against a tree. If they did, they’d be partially hidden from view, and, in any case, it might look too much like a re-enactment of one of the attacks—a bit too obvious. It’s the right decision, but James can still feel the weight of his disappointment; a real reluctance to let go of the fantasy of being crushed against some oak or ash by Lewis; the rough bark scraping his back. _Ridiculous! It’s not a date, for God’s sake._

The plan is that if none of the benches near the fountain are occupied, they’ll head there: right in the centre of the park. If any of the benches are in use, they’ll stroll along the path they’re on until they’re a good way past the benches (they don’t want any members of the public getting involved if something does actually kick off), and then they’ll stop and kiss, just standing on the path. They’ll keep going for a while, but if nothing happens they’ll wander out of the park and try again off and on throughout the evening.

The benches are all free, so Lewis puts his arm round James’ waist, pulls him in close, and steers them in that direction. James can feel Lewis’ hand resting against his side, heavy and warm through the thin cotton of his shirt. Lewis is stroking his thumb firmly against James’ bottom rib. Does he realize he’s doing it? Is it part of the pretence, or just nervous energy? 

“Put your arm round me, James.” _Shit._ James is so keyed up, so scattered, that he’s forgotten the basics of pretending they’re a couple. He slides his arm round Lewis’ back and rests his hand on his far shoulder. God, the shirt _is_ soft; almost downy. And Lewis is radiating heat—it must be adrenalin. Lewis squeezes his side. “You okay?”

“Yes, I’m all right. You? What’s Cameron saying to you?”

“Nothing worth repeating, that’s for sure.”

They get to the bench. What they’ve planned is that James will perch on the back of the bench and Lewis will kiss him. Of course what they haven’t done is gone into any detail; it was bad enough having to talk about it at all, even in the vaguest of terms. Lewis—face red and not quite managing to make eye contact—had asked him again if he was okay with “me being in control.” James had confirmed that it wasn’t a problem, and then had proceeded to try and lighten the atmosphere by cracking a joke about being used to it by now, what with being Lewis’ bagman and all. Lewis had just shot him a grumpy look.

So James has parked his backside on the back of the bench, and Lewis is standing just in front of him; James’ outstretched legs between them. They need to get from here to hugging and kissing, and from this point on, they—well mainly Lewis—will just have to improvise. 

“You’re going to need to spread your legs so I can get close enough to you.” 

_Fuck._ James can feel the heat flooding into his cheeks. This is . . . _fuck_ ; he can’t form coherent thoughts, and they haven’t even started yet. Lewis has said one thing, and immediately James’ mind, his body—everything about him—is racing, tumbling; fuelled by adrenalin and fear and arousal. Lewis better _had_ be able to take charge, because right now James is struggling to tell which way is up. 

Lewis gently taps a foot against one of James’. _Right. Focus_. He parts his legs, making space for Lewis to step closer. Lewis fits himself snugly against James, his chest solid and warm against James’.

With James half sitting on the back of the bench, Lewis is a few inches taller than him. For the most part James enjoys being tall, enjoys being able to see over people’s heads; values having the ability to stride away from people, on his long, quick legs. But this, this being tucked in tight against Lewis, face pressed against his shoulder, unable to see anything but a lapis sea; _this_ is a revelation.

Lewis wraps his arms round James and kisses him gently on the forehead, and, as James tilts his head up in response, Lewis repeats the kiss on his cheek and then on his closed mouth. They're not hesitant kisses, but they’re soft; measured. James feels himself calming a little; impossible, really, not to feel steadier, pressed safe against Lewis’ chest like this. He slides his arms round his boss and for a few seconds just concentrates on breathing him in. 

Then Lewis tenses up.

“What?” 

“Bloody Cameron. We need to step it up a bit. Okay?” 

“Of course.” Though in all his imaginings this afternoon about how this would work, James has always pictured Lewis pinning him against a tree. Since that plan was ditched, he’s drawn a bit of a blank. He can’t quite think how Lewis is going to convey a sufficient sense of dominance with them leaning against a bench by a fountain. As a setting, it hardly shouts kinky sex.

“Put your hands behind your back, James. Wrists together.”

_What?!_ Where the hell did that come from? Has Lewis been planning this, choreographing it in his mind while he drove them here? Or is he just naturally . . . _holy fuck_. James does as he’s told.

“Good.” It’s no more than a low growl in his ear, but that lone syllable of approval is electrifying. 

“If you need me to stop at any point, tell me. Yes?” It’s laughable how unlikely that is, but James nods all the same. Lewis reaches behind James and takes hold of both wrists with his left hand. His right hand, he wraps round the back of James’ head, which he then eases back a little, so that they’re gazing at each other, their faces five or six inches apart, with James looking up at him. 

Lewis nods. “Keep looking at me, James.” _As if he could look away._

Time stills. The park, Cameron, even the knife-wielding bastard who might put in an appearance any second now; they all fade away. In this moment, there’s only Lewis.

Lewis nudges James’ legs further apart so he can push himself even closer, fitting them together from chest to groin. Then he bends his head down and presses his lips against James’ again, and this time, there’s nothing soft or measured about it. The kisses are pushy; demanding. Lewis’ tongue is in his mouth, his hands are holding him firmly in place, and James is groaning. They’re on a dangerous job, being watched by half a dozen undercover police officers, and James is groaning and rubbing himself against his boss and he doesn’t care; he honestly doesn’t care. 

Anyway, it’s not just him; Lewis is doing his fair share of rubbing too, and although he isn’t exactly groaning, he keeps murmuring “good” into James’ mouth, as he devours him. _Does he mean they’re doing a good job; that all is going according to plan? Or does he mean the kissing? That for him, too, the kissing is good?_ Because, as far as James is concerned, the kissing is fucking epic; it’s life changing. _It’s perfect._

Lewis drags his mouth to James’ jaw, softly biting and sucking along it, then shifts to his neck, burying his nose and mouth in the tender skin there. He kisses James just below his ear and whispers, “Person of interest, on a bike. North entrance. Watching us. We need to keep going.”

Then, with a squeeze, he releases James’ wrists, and instead takes hold of his head with both hands, tilting it so he can slot their mouths together. He pushes his tongue into James’ mouth again and makes a sighing sound at the back of his throat, like he’s back exactly where he wants to be. Lewis has got him bent backwards a little, over the bench. It’s not uncomfortable, because he’s being held so firmly, but it does mean that even with his hands now free, Lewis is still completely in charge. 

James’ heart is hammering. He’s finding it hard to breathe; his body’s being tossed about on a sea of fear and arousal; adrenalin and anticipation. How is Lewis even managing to stand? He feels so solid and safe. If James wasn’t sitting on the back of this bench, being held tightly in place, he’s not convinced his knees wouldn’t just buckle under him.

Lewis bends to kiss his neck again. “Thirty yards, headed our way.” He can feel the tension building in Lewis, in the now almost painful grip of his hands; in the muscles of his shoulders, where James is holding onto him.

“Twenty yards. Get ready. You know what to do.” He loosens his hold on James but doesn’t move yet.

“Ten yards. Go!”

Lewis lets go of him, spins round, and for the first time James can see what’s going on. There’s a man leaping off a bike just a few yards away from them. As he throws the bike to the ground, he reaches inside his jacket, and _fuck_ , there it is—a knife—nine-inch blade, stainless steel, by the looks of it. Three of the Reading team are closing in on him from behind, with Cameron’s long-suffering sergeant, Alice, leading the pack. And then it all happens very quickly.

“Stop! Police!” That’s Alice. The bloke hesitates and half skids to a halt as he hears her—and as he sees that James and Lewis are now both facing him. Then he lurches forward again, obviously thinking he might still be able to do some damage, despite the turn of events. But Alice launches herself at him, and they both hit the ground heavily. Instantly, Lewis is in the scrum with them, while James stands back, desperately trying to see where the knife is; waiting for an opportunity . . . and then _shit_ , he sees the knife—still in the bastard’s right hand—being lifted over Lewis’ head. _Not fucking likely!_ James kicks the hand and the knife as hard as he can, and the knife flies away, landing in the grass, well out of reach. Ten seconds later, it’s all over. Alice has the bloke in cuffs, the rest of the team arrive, and Lewis is back on his feet—dishevelled but unharmed. Cameron, of course, turns up just in time to do the arresting, and then they all walk the bloke to the police van that’s waiting by the main entrance to the park. 

The perp is one David Waltham, a local pharmacist whose long-term partner left him two months ago for a man twice his age. He doesn’t seem to have quite understood that Lewis and James are coppers, and as Alice is putting him in the back of the van he turns to James, who’s standing right by them. 

“Why do you let a disgusting old man like that touch you? Look at you! You’re gorgeous. You could have anyone.” Waltham looks genuinely at a loss to understand.

James almost walks away without saying a word. _Almost._ But he can’t help it. He leans in through the open door of the van and says, quietly but adamantly, “He’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever met.” Then he backs away from the van door, right into Alice, who obviously heard, because she winks at him. It’s not a sleazy, Randy Sandy kind of wink; or a mocking wink. It’s more of an _Excellent! You go get him, Tiger,_ kind of wink. All he can do is shrug and flash her a little, self-mocking smile as he strolls off; and be grateful that it was just her who heard. 

He finds Lewis and they start to walk back to the car. They’ll meet Cameron and the others back at the nick to sort out the formalities, but right now it’s just the two of them, and James doesn’t know where to look; _and_ he seems to have contracted a case of terminal blushing. 

“All right, James?”

He nods. “Sir.” What else can he say? His brain hasn’t really come back on-line yet, and right now he can’t get his head round the fact that each time he glances at Lewis he sees the man he’s known for years—who is now also the man whose lips and hands he can still feel on his body; whose taste is still in his mouth. And yes, he’s always fancied Lewis. And yes, he’s had fantasies about them kissing—and more. But _shit_ , he never expected it to be so bloody . . . _everything_. Maybe he’s just a woefully inadequate fantasiser, but God in Heaven, the reality was better than anything he’d ever imagined. 

Lewis looks concerned. “You’re quiet. You weren’t hurt in the scuffle, were you?”

_Come on; focus._ “No. Not at all. He didn’t get anywhere near me. Are you okay, though? You were right in the thick of it.”

“Aye. I’m fine. A bit grubby from rolling around on the ground, but nothing worse. Don’t know if this shirt’ll clean up all right though.” He frowns at a dark mark running all down one sleeve. “I might have to boil it.”

“No!” James’ shout surprises both of them to a halt.

“I mean—it’s a nice shirt. You’ll ruin it. The colour will fade.”

And then he realises his hand is on Lewis’ chest, holding onto the soft fabric, resting against his boss’ heart. He has no recollection of reaching out and placing it there. Lewis looks down at the hand, Vermeer-lead white against the astonishing blue. When Lewis looks back up at him again, he’s smiling softly; eyes dark and ringed with lapis.

“That would be a bad thing then, would it?”

James can feel an answering, dopey smile ambushing him. “Yeah.”

They stand there in the street, looking at each other; James’ hand still pressed against Lewis’ chest. His own chest feels like it’s full of baby birds, fluttering their wings, trying to take flight. His gaze sweeps down to Lewis’ mouth—he wants to feel it on his own mouth again so badly. When he drags his gaze back up, Lewis is watching him. And then, with a sigh that sounds like it’s laced with regret, Lewis says, “We have to go and say goodbye to Cameron and the gang.”

Of course they do. Of course they bloody do. But why say that right now; right at this moment—when he can feel Lewis’ heart; when he’s drowning in a lapis sea? He doesn’t move his hand. In fact he holds on tighter; and at that, something seems to shift in Lewis. He nods, and breathes out audibly, and then he flashes James the cheekiest grin. 

“You know, we really can’t head home without dropping into the nick first. But I was thinking, afterwards, maybe we should go somewhere quiet, just you and me. Review the operation. Compare notes on what worked; what we might want to try again. What d’ya think?”

What do I _think_?! James does his best to look mildly puzzled; blasé. “Review the operation, sir?”

“Yeah, you know. I can think of a number of . . . actions, that were taken . . . that from where I was standing worked well—really very well.” The cheeky grin is back. “But I’d like to hear from you—what you thought was good. What you think is worth spending some time developing. I’d welcome your feedback.”

James is trying to keep control of his expression. “Well, you know me, sir. I’m always keen to review and improve. Can you give me an example of the kind of _actions_ you had in mind?” 

He can see Lewis pressing his lips together, desperately trying not to laugh. 

“Want me to tell you, or show you, Sergeant?”

_Oh God. Here it comes._ “Show me; definitely show me. An experiential approach is so much more effective than didactic learning, don’t you think?” 

Lewis steps right into his space. He takes hold of the hand that’s been clinging to the wondrous blue shirt, and squeezes it: “Better put this somewhere safe.” Then he pulls James in close and kisses him on the mouth: two, three presses of his lips. Lewis’ lips feel dry; a bit rough. James wants to bite them. Chew on them. Make them tender and swollen. But perhaps here, in this leafy street in Reading and with work still to do, is neither the place nor time for such pleasures. He contents himself with gently sucking on the fleshy bottom lip, and is rewarded by Lewis humming softly and pulling him even closer. They’re in public, in daylight, so there’s a limit to what they can do, regardless of the duties calling them. But James slides his tongue a little way into Lewis’ mouth, and then Lewis brushes the tip of his tongue slowly against James’, which makes James’ insides melt and arousal snake low through his belly and groin. So he pushes in further, wanting more: more heat; more sensation.

The next time he has a conscious thought is when Lewis breaks off the kiss and rests the side of his face against James’, while they both get their breath back. James is semi-hard and is pressed so tightly against Lewis that he’s practically climbing him. He can feel Lewis’ smile against his cheek. Lewis softly kisses James’ earlobe and then whispers:

“That’s the kind of action I was thinking of, James.” 

James whispers back. “Truth be told, sir, I’ve given some thought to those kinds of actions, myself.”

Lewis leans back a little, so they can see each other. He looks very pleased with the turn of events. “Yeah? Well, with that big old brain of yours, you’ve probably come up with some excellent ideas.” 

James is all modesty. “One or two, perhaps. I’d value your opinion, actually. You are the senior officer. You’ve got a wealth of knowledge. Be a waste not to take advantage of that. Sir.” 

Lewis looks delighted. He glances in the direction of the car. “Come on, then. The sooner we deal with Cameron and his mob, the sooner we can get home and I can give you the full benefit of me many years’ practical experience. Did you have any plans for this weekend, James?” And with that, Lewis sets off down the road, hands in pockets, casual as you like.

_The whole weekend! Oh God_. James matches his stride to Lewis’. 

“Nothing much in the way of plans, no.”

Lewis nods thoughtfully. “Good man. I think I’ll want to revisit the operation in detail: go over every inch. You okay with a thorough debrief?” 

James’ cheeks are a shade of vermilion that Vermeer himself would have approved of, but he’s determined to give as good as he gets. “Yes. Debriefing should definitely be the next step . . .”—he leaves a beat of silence, then—“That said; it’ll probably be hard—you might have to give me a helping hand.”

Lewis snorts, then gives him such an affectionate, approving look—and it’s like every molecule, every cell, every atom of James is happy. Yes, it’s a pain that they’ve got to check in with Randy Sandy and the team, and yes; the last thing either of them really wants is the drive back to Oxford. But James can’t stop smiling, and by the looks of him, neither can Lewis. James isn’t someone who typically looks on the bright side or expects things to go his way; but this feels real; solid—something he can depend on. It feels like finally, all the years of murder and misery have meaning, because they’re the forces that shaped this bond between him and Lewis. They’re the crucible in which their trust and care for each other were formed. So if he has to wait a few more hours before he can hold Lewis and touch him again, he can live with that. It’s obvious—even to James—that there’s so much joy to come, so much love and sex and warmth; and it might not be such a bad thing to have a bit of time to adjust to this new, astonishing reality.

They get to the car and James settles himself into the passenger seat. He closes his eyes and listens to the sound of Lewis putting his seatbelt on; to the engine starting. The car’s warm, and he’s suddenly exhausted from the day’s events. As Lewis eases them through the quiet, evening streets, James starts to doze. He dreams of sunshine. He dreams of being naked in Lewis’ arms. He dreams he’s weightless; floating on a lapis sea.


End file.
